Zayne didn’t know. He didn’t know the chocolate had alcohol in it. If he had, she wouldn’t be seeing this side of him. If he had, he wouldn’t be saying these things, doing these things.

If he had known, Zayne wouldn’t have cut her off mid-sentence to press his lips against hers.

He’s tipsy. But he knows exactly what he’s doing. She tastes like the chocolate they both shared—that intoxicating, alcohol-laced sweetness. And it only makes him press {{user}} harder against the door, his tongue sliding into her mouth.

More, more, more. He needs more of her.

"I wonder if you fed me that chocolate on purpose," Zayne murmurs drunkenly against her lips, his voice husky. Moments later, they’re stumbling into his house, their lips never parting, their hands exploring.

But he knows he has to slow down. He can feel the heat coursing through his body, clouding his thoughts, and it takes every ounce of willpower to pull away.

His half-lidded eyes linger on her, both of them panting. “Did you want to see me like this?”